Classic Poem

Enlighten'd Patron of the sacred Lyre?
Whose ever-varying, ever-witching song
— — Revibrates on the heart
— — With magic thrilling touch,
Till ev'ry nerve with quiv'ring throb divine,
In madd'ning tumults, owns thy wond'rous pow'r;
— — For well thy dulcet notes
— — Can wind the mazy song,
In labyrinth of wild fantastic form;
Or with empassion'd pathos woo the soul
— — With sounds more sweetly mild,
— — Than Sappho's plaint forlorn,
When bending o'er the wave she sung her woes,
While pitying Echo hover'd o'er the deep,
— — Till in their coral caves,
— — The tuneful Nereides wept.
Ah! whither art thou flown? where pours thy song?
The model and the pride of British bards!
— — Sweet Star of Fancy's orb,
— — " O, tell me, tell me, where? "
Say, dost thou waste it on the viewless air
That bears it to the confines of high Heav'n?
— — Or does it court the meed
— — Of proud pre-eminence?
Or steals it o'er the glitt'ring Sapphire wave,
Calming the tempest with its silver sounds?
— — Or does it charm to love
— — The fond believing maid?
Or does it hover o'er the Alpine steep,
Or softly breathing under myrtle shades,
— — With Sympathy divine,
— — Solace the child of woe?
Where'er thou art, Oh! let thy gentle strain
Again with magic pow'r delight mine ear,
— — Untutor'd in the spells,
— — And mysteries of song.
Then, on the margin of the deep I'll muse,
And bless the rocking bark ordain'd to bear
— — My sad heart o'er the wave,
— — From this ungrateful isle;
When the wan queen of night, with languid eye,
Peeps o'er the mountain's head, or thro' the vale
— — Illumes the glassy brook,
— — Or dew-besprinkled heath,
Or with her crystal lamp, directs the feet
Of the benighted Trav'ller, cold, and sad,
— — Thro' the long forest drear,
— — And pathless labyrinth,
To the poor Peasant's hospitable cot,
For ever open to the wretch forlorn;
— — O, then I'll think on Thee,
— — And iterate thy strain,
And chaunt thy matchless numbers o'er and o'er,
And I will court the sullen ear of night,
— — To bear the rapt'rous sound,
— — On her dark shad'wy wing,
To where encircled by the sacred Nine,
Thy Lyre awakes the never-dying song!
— — Now, Bard admir'd, farewel!
— — The white sail flutters loud,
The gaudy streamers lengthen in the gale,
Far from my native shore I bend my way;
— — Yet, as my aching eye
— — Shall view the less'ning cliff,
'Till its stupendous head shall scarce appear
Above the surface of the swelling deep;
— — I'll snatch a ray of hope,
— — For Hope's the lamp divine
That lights and vivifies the fainting soul,
With extacies beyond the pow'rs of song!
— — That ere I reach those banks
— — Where the loud Tiber flows,
Or milder Arno slowly steals along,
To the soft music of the summer breeze,
— — The wafting wing of Time
— — May bear this last Adieu,
This wild, untutor'd picture of the heart,
To him, whose magic verse inspir'd the Strain.

Enlighten'd Patron of the sacred Lyre?
Whose ever-varying, ever-witching song
— — Revibrates on the heart
— — With magic thrilling touch,
Till ev'ry nerve with quiv'ring throb divine,
In madd'ning tumults, owns thy wond'rous pow'r;
— — For well thy dulcet notes
— — Can wind the mazy song,
In labyrinth of wild fantastic form;
Or with empassion'd pathos woo the soul
— — With sounds more sweetly mild,
— — Than Sappho's plaint forlorn,
When bending o'er the wave she sung her woes,
While pitying Echo hover'd o'er the deep,
— — Till in their coral caves,
— — The tuneful Nereides wept.
Ah! whither art thou flown? where pours thy song?
The model and the pride of British bards!
— — Sweet Star of Fancy's orb,
— — " O, tell me, tell me, where? "
Say, dost thou waste it on the viewless air
That bears it to the confines of high Heav'n?
— — Or does it court the meed
— — Of proud pre-eminence?
Or steals it o'er the glitt'ring Sapphire wave,
Calming the tempest with its silver sounds?
— — Or does it charm to love
— — The fond believing maid?
Or does it hover o'er the Alpine steep,
Or softly breathing under myrtle shades,
— — With Sympathy divine,
— — Solace the child of woe?
Where'er thou art, Oh! let thy gentle strain
Again with magic pow'r delight mine ear,
— — Untutor'd in the spells,
— — And mysteries of song.
Then, on the margin of the deep I'll muse,
And bless the rocking bark ordain'd to bear
— — My sad heart o'er the wave,
— — From this ungrateful isle;
When the wan queen of night, with languid eye,
Peeps o'er the mountain's head, or thro' the vale
— — Illumes the glassy brook,
— — Or dew-besprinkled heath,
Or with her crystal lamp, directs the feet
Of the benighted Trav'ller, cold, and sad,
— — Thro' the long forest drear,
— — And pathless labyrinth,
To the poor Peasant's hospitable cot,
For ever open to the wretch forlorn;
— — O, then I'll think on Thee,
— — And iterate thy strain,
And chaunt thy matchless numbers o'er and o'er,
And I will court the sullen ear of night,
— — To bear the rapt'rous sound,
— — On her dark shad'wy wing,
To where encircled by the sacred Nine,
Thy Lyre awakes the never-dying song!
— — Now, Bard admir'd, farewel!
— — The white sail flutters loud,
The gaudy streamers lengthen in the gale,
Far from my native shore I bend my way;
— — Yet, as my aching eye
— — Shall view the less'ning cliff,
'Till its stupendous head shall scarce appear
Above the surface of the swelling deep;
— — I'll snatch a ray of hope,
— — For Hope's the lamp divine
That lights and vivifies the fainting soul,
With extacies beyond the pow'rs of song!
— — That ere I reach those banks
— — Where the loud Tiber flows,
Or milder Arno slowly steals along,
To the soft music of the summer breeze,
— — The wafting wing of Time
— — May bear this last Adieu,
This wild, untutor'd picture of the heart,
To him, whose magic verse inspir'd the Strain.